


When the Sixth Day Comes

by MadameFolie



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Doubt, Imperialism, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4878058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameFolie/pseuds/MadameFolie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1814. That which Sweden gives form to, he means to last.</p><p>Pity that isn't quite how things work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He built the bed frame himself.

 

It is a beautiful piece, hewn all from one great oak tree. Sweden has always loved oak. It is sturdy. Strong. Strong, and yet warm— he is fond of that hearth-brown color. And of the soft shine it takes on beneath a polish-rag in his hands.

 

He built the bed himself. It was he who felled the oak, he who coaxed from it the pieces he’d need, and he who shaped them and smoothed them. His fingers are calloused still from the sawing, the sanding. If he rubs them together, he can still feel the roughness where the skin has been worn white and brittle.

 

The framework fits together as brethren parts born of the same trunk ought to: Easily. Naturally. No fixative or screws needed to hold the bedding frame in place. It is a single oak bed made from a single oak tree.

 

He built the bed himself, and it is strong. It is constancy.

 

It has not groaned or given beneath his weight or that of another, not once in a thousand years.

 

Not once; of course.

 

He built it himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the kinkmeme. To be revised and updated, slowly. To read the original, please see: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/15769.html?thread=39656601#t39656601


	2. Chapter 2

“Yer lookin’ a mess,” he remarks upon seeing Denmark. It does not surprise him that Copenhagen has lain the fool low, only the extent to which it has. Denmark stands beside the doors of the room where the negotiations are taking place. He may have lost Finland to Russia for the time being, but Denmark has lost Copenhagen and that is what matters the most; Denmark leans against the deep old inlay with his coat cast casually open and the blood seeping through his bandages to show for it. Blood seeping through the fine brocade of his waistcoat and doubtless through the white linen shirt beneath.

He pities the king who must waste such finery outfitting a fool.

Denmark bares his teeth in greeting. Sweden supposes he means it to be a smile, but the two are not so far removed when coming from Denmark.

“Really?” He rests a hand against his stained belly. “I rather like it! Always thought I didn’t look half bad in red.”

The sort of thing he says coming from every battle. Sweden remembers an age when his brother walked Scania blank-eyed, blank-minded and bare-chested but for the blood of enemies slain bare-handed. The look on Denmark’s face says he does, too.

“Ya wound me, Sverige.”

“’f only. Dunno whether t’thank Britannien or not fer that.”

“Well, fuck you, too.”

Lest he forget his delicate position, Sweden reminds him:

“’s not me what’s gettin’ fucked here today.”

 

He has never been fond of that word, “fuck”.

Though Sweden could not in good conscience fancy himself gentle, he finds the implications leave a nastier taste in his mouth than he cares to palate. It is an ugly word, one which makes ugly an ugly act. Copulation is not dignified, but it need not be rendered vulgar, either. It strikes him, with his face pressed against the sheets, that he has not once called it that, not in his mind or when giving voice to it. Yes, he thought of what might be if pressed his fingers deep inside Finland, his fingers and more— or taken the man’s arousal into his own mouth, too, but he has never called what he wished to pass between their bodies “fucking”. Not once. It is an ugly word. He does not like it.

The clothing Finland left behind still smells of him. Something that is more than sweat, more than blood remains there, woven between the threads. If he buries his face in a well-worn shirt and inhales, he can find it. It is faint, but it is there, beneath the fine veil of the scent of wood and dust. He strokes off slowly, thinking of Finland’s hands on him, but it is the two fingers he twists and curls inside himself that push him over the edge in the end. The other hand fists in the old shirt, holds it to his nose and to his lips.

He cannot bring himself to discard the clothes. He knows better than to hope that Finland will be coming to retrieve them anytime soon, but it is just as well. People will come and go. Cattle will die and kinsmen will die. Men die, too. It is his fool of a brother who is wont to say that word of a man’s glories are all that shall live on. Folly, he thinks, for a word dies the moment it is put to tongue. Hearsay glory can expect to live no longer than could an old sow. The gold cross about his neck will outlive the mortal soul of man. Sweat will, and blood will. The old oak frame of his bed, too. Not once has it groaned beneath his weight. He should know— he built it himself. That which he gives form to, he means to last.

Finland’s old shirt still bears his scent. He runs his fingers along the seams, thinking he might undo them come autumn. Winter comes on fast, then, and the nights will be growing long and cold. Perhaps he might like a new quilt to keep himself warm, then.

Perhaps.

 

“’sides, always been real keen on red,” Denmark goes on. “Great fuckin’ color. Always thought it brought out the best in a man.”

It is a joke. He snickers to himself, but Sweden does not join him laughing. It is not that he does not understand. Simply that he does not find it funny.

It is not.

He crosses to the door and pauses before his fingertips come to rest on the handle.

“Norge is here, too.” Not a question. Denmark nods.

“Course he’s here. My business’s his business.”

For now, anyway. Norway’s business is Denmark’s business, but Denmark has never made his business not Sweden’s.

“Our business,” Sweden corrects him.

“Right, whatever. Semantics. But please.” He indicates the door. “If you’re in a rush, don’t let me keep ya.”

“Won’t be joinin’ us?”

“Gimme a sec, wouldja? Gotta catch my breath before headin’ in.” Denmark plucks at his cravat. When his hand comes away, Sweden can see a speckling of deep red on the white where his fingers were. “Gets stuffy somethin’ awful in there with those bigwig-types blowin’ all that hot air. Even worse doin’ it in French.”

He wonders if Denmark knows just how much clothing he is ruining with his easy bloodletting.

Probably not. He is a king among fools, after all.

They are not to speak among the so-called bigwigs, as it were. The three of them are to keep out of the way in a beautifully-furnished chamber for tea as matters are sorted out. And this, Sweden supposes, is so that Norway, the idiot and his self do not hear the proceedings. It seems a silly measure to take, to him, for there are no secrets between them and their people. It is a fact of their existence: what their people know, they will, too. Just as they will starve or bleed when their people do. Sweden thinks this is not such an unreasonable thing to assume, but perhaps not. Perhaps not.

So it is a strange feeling, Sweden thinks, to be sitting on a soft day sofa in Kiel, admiring a statuary befitting a king as cannon fire thunders in his bones and ears from afar. Phantom bullets rip through flesh that is not his and somehow is and yet the little round teacakes taste just as sweet. Yes, it is strange. Very strange. He shuts his eyes and thinks of the marble statues about them, so cool, white, and still. Like snow.

The clean porcelain of the teacups, too. The cups are so small and delicate. He holds them with his gloves still on, as if somehow they might cushion the poor china in his grip. In the furthest reaches of battle, someone is clutching the reins of a frightened horse. To let go might mean death. To hold fast would break the cup. The cannons do little to help. The negotiations likewise, if one might call them that. Denmark’s hands are unequivocally bound.

Proverbially bound, but still free to take his tea. Sweden does not recognize the brew, but he supposes Denmark will like it nonetheless— it is red, and red brings out the best in a man. So he says. Yet for once he seems to have nothing to say. Norway either. He sits across from them, the object of their parallax, and sips his tea in silence.

Denmark flinches suddenly, as he is reaching for his, and a glance passes between him and Norway. A moment passes. An instant. Just an instant.

“Fuck,” Denmark says, rubbing absently at the bloodstain at his waist. “There’s Copenhagen acting up again.”

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Norway sets his own tea down.

“Islande’s doin’ well, then,” Sweden asks. He speaks in French, for the sake of the comfort of the guards at attention by the door. He immediately regrets asking. It is a question in poor taste. He only means to ask after family, as humans are wont to do. It is generally deemed appropriate amongst them, as far as he can tell. Polite, even. And Norway is one of so few of their kind with the luxury of claiming shared blood. He is lucky in that regard. Very lucky. But then, they are not as humans, and blood will mean little when they at last draw their lines, in the sand or on the maps. What measure is luck, then?

A question in poor taste, indeed. Small talk has never been his forte. Perhaps that, he thinks, is why the three of them sit and wait and sip tea and hold fast to saber and rein as the so-called bigwigs speak.

“Mm,” Norway says. “Shootin’ right up like a weed. Reckon’ it’s somethin’ in the water, or th’like.”

Sweden nods. That is good, at least. Norway’s brother is a bright child, if petulant. He supposes they share something of a stubborn streak, the two of them. Denmark ought to appreciate that while Norway is gone. Sweden sets his cup back on the saucer as well. There is silence once again. The Norwegian guards mutter softly to each other in French. Norway smiles to himself.

Another spasm seems to seize Denmark then. He hisses, doubles over and drops his tea. Sweden never hears the cup shatter: a body hits the earth in Holstein. He watches the red spread out and seep down into the fabric, down so deep between the fibers that it will surely stain. When he shakes his head, it is still there.

One of the guards crosses from the door, laying down his gun to offer Denmark his shoulder. Denmark bats his hand away.

“’m fine,” he growls. “Leave it.”

“You’re bleeding,” Norway observes. The stain on his waistcoat has spread, indeed. The span of his hand can no longer hide it.

“Yeah, hadn’t fuckin’ occurred t’me.” Curious, Sweden thinks. It isn’t like Denmark to take such a caustic tone with Norway . “I said don’t fuckin’ touch me!”

The young guard starts, as if burned and backs away. Norway motions to him.

“It’s alright, Rønning, stand down. Give him space.”

“Sir,” he protests. “He’s hurt.”

Denmark snorts.

“Wanna see hurt? Get these wrappings offa me and I’ll show ya what really hurt.”

Sweden closes his eyes again. He has seen. England has much to pride himself on, having dealt a wound that has not healed these last thirteen years. The scar it leaves will stand a testament to his fortitude.

“Let me see,” Norway says, coming to kneel beside him.

“Stop. Toldja, it’s nothin’.”

“Don’tcha backpedal on me, I want to see it.”

And so the layers come away. Norway’s silhouette blocks his view of the damage, and Denmark barks at Rønning to keep his distance. He complies, when Norway assures him it is simply that: bark, and no bite.

“Think’ve him like a big ol’ dog,” he explains, pushing the shirt open. “A big ol’ dumb, yappin’ dog.” And then he falls silent.

Denmark looks away. Lets out a ragged breath when Norway brings his fingers close.

“Don’t touch it,” he says. Sweden realizes that he is no longer hearing French. It’s Danish; he wonders when they made the switch.

“Lyin’ sonnuva bitch. When did it get this bad?”

“Stop,” Denmark mutters. “Do you gotta—”

Norway cuts him off.

“Rønning.” In French. “Get your friend. Take this idiot to get hisself looked at.”

“Hey. Hey, Norge, just hold up one second there.”

“Try t’keep the weight on his right foot if’n y’can. An’ give’m the strongest what y’got t’drink.” He turns to the guards still at the door. “Karlsson! Mean it! C’mon, hustle!”

Amidst a muffled patter of gunshots, Norway replaces the blood-matted shirt and hands Denmark off to the guards. They lead him, limping, from the room and shut the door behind them. Then they are alone.

“…he’s had worse,” Sweden offers. Norway sighs, rising to his feet.  
  
“Be that as it may, dunno who he thinks he’s foolin.”  
  
“Well, ain’t Copenhagen what’s all botherin’ him, reckon.”  
  
“’Scuse?  
  
“Thinkin’ there’s more to it.”  
  
Norway’s eyes narrow.  
  
“’M not followin’ ya.”  
  
Which can’t be true. Norway is too clever to not understand.  
  
“Th’treaty. Talkin’ bout the treaty.”  
  
“Y’mean givin’ over my lands. How it’s t’be compensation.”  
  
Sweden nods slowly.  
  
“Mm. ‘s how it is. Gotta have consequences for losin’.” Which is true enough. “Elsewise, it wouldn’t learn’m none.”  
  
“Learnin’, eh? That what this’s about?”  
  
“Learnin’.”  
  
“Learnin’ him like how?”  
  
“Learnin’ him a lesson like always," he explains. "A lesson in pickin’ his fights.”  
  
Norway takes a seat in Denmark’s vacant spot, neatly smoothing his coat about him.  
  
“We weren’t keen on doin’ any fighting afore. Not ‘til Copenhagen,” he says.  
  
“Now he hasn’t gotta do any. ’m makin’ good an’ sure.”  
  
“An’ losin’ Finland’s got nothin’ t’do with it.”  
  
Something in the pit of Sweden’s belly goes cold. Norway reaches for his tea and saucer.  
  
“…course not. What’s gotcha thinkin’ that?”  
  
“Just lost a mighty big resource in Finland, I ken. King ain’t gonna just bend over and take it.” When Sweden does not rebut, he goes on. “Extra space on th’western seaboard could make fer some mighty fine protection.”  
  
“’s not—”  
  
“An’ it’d twist that knife in Danmark’s belly extra.”  
  
No, Sweden wants to say, it isn’t like that, not at all, but Norway’s hands have stiffened, porcelain in his fingers clinking against porcelain. How delicately, Sweden thinks, he holds that cool, pale porcelain. Cool, and pale like marble. Like Norway’s calm expression, and the statues watching them from across the room. Beneath their feet, the tea is seeping deep into the carpet, stark and red against the white.  
  
“Only gonna ask ya once. Am I readin’ this right?”  
  
Sweden wants to say no. He really, truly does. But Norway meets his gaze and holds it, and “no” dies unspoken on his tongue.  
  
“Thought so,” Norway says, and drains his cup dry.

 

In time, Norway excuses himself from the chamber, under the pretense of a walk. The only indication Sweden has as to his return is in the way the door rattles on its hinges, as if under strain. It is, it turns out. When he gets up to investigate, he can hear them on the other side, the wood is not so solid as to swallow the sound. He can easily hear the hushed breaths and the gentle click of lips slipping together, and the whispered—  
  
“Please, please, oh, God, don’t go—”  
  
He decides against opening the door.  
  
“Don’t got a choice. Now cut it out, you. Copenhagen.”  
  
“Don’t hurt.” Silence, again, save for the labored breathing. Sweden wonders how much of it really isn’t from pain. “Not a bit. Just…fuck, just stay, don’t go, please, you don’t _gotta_ do it.”  
  
“Liar. If it didn’t hurt, then what was that little show y’had going fer us earlier, huh?”  
  
Nails on fabric. A sharp intake of breath. Lips coming together again.  
  
“Don’t go.”  
  
“I—”  
  
And again. A muffled:  
  
“ _Don’t_.”  
  
And a hiss.  
  
“ _Can’t_.”  
  
The door bounces and thumps once against his back. Another kiss.  
  
“’s your choice t’make, Danmark,” Sweden warns. Perhaps more loudly than he must. “Not like ‘m the only one with troops parked outsida Jutland.”  
  
One last slip of lips on lips. Then, silence.  
  
Breathing.  
  
“Sverige.”  
  
Norway’s voice.  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
Denmark’s.  
  
Denmark’s fist, thumping against the door.  
  
“Yer a mess," Sweden reminds him. "Just live an’ let live, already.”  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
“We’ll talk,” Norway says.

 

Wounded or not, Denmark still manages to put a new seeing hole in the door. An impressive gesture on his part, but it doesn’t do any favors for the idiot’s condition. When they return to their seats, his face has grown ashen, the shadows beneath his eyes more pronounced. He sits hunched over, drink in hand and says nothing, and Sweden supposes it is just as well. The negotiations are drawing to a close, so he outlines the terms of the treaty, for clarity’s sake. So he says, at the very least. So he says. Denmark may keep his other lands, but his ties with Norway are to be severed. He watches the teacup in Denmark’s grip: webs of hairline fractures spread beneath his fingers.  
  
It’s just as well. Let Denmark shatter the cup. If he cannot be trusted to comport himself in a manner befitting humans, then Sweden need not accommodate him accordingly. He wonders if it would be unbecoming to serve Denmark his tea in a dish on the floor.  
  
“Finland,” Denmark growls. “You son of a bitch. This’s all about Finland, innit?”  
  
Sweden drinks his tea. That makes two, then— why must they always bring it back to that? He doesn’t dignify Denmark’s barking with a response, turning instead to Norway.  
  
“They’ll be signin’ off on it, right about now.” Though he cannot imagine Norway does not know.  
  
“Hey. Hey! I was addressin’ ya.”  
  
“Gonna let ya have a week t’get your things t’gether.”  
  
“Don’t ignore me, Sverige. Don’t fuckin’ do that.”  
  
“Easy, Danmark,” Norway warns him. “Make it a month.”  
  
A month is too long. A month would give the seeds of rebellion time to take root, should Norway sow them, and he cannot have that. He shakes his head.  
  
“Can’t. A week.” A week and no longer.  
  
“Three, then. ‘s not so easy t’get affairs in order.”  
  
By now Denmark is at the edge of his seat, bristling.  
  
“He’s ignoring me! Fuckin’ cocksucker’s ignoring me!”  
  
Norway’s eyes shoot sidelong, dangerously narrowed once more.  
  
“Danmark, I said t’shut it.” His voice has gone from calm and cool to cold.  
  
“C’mon,” Denmark says to him, grinning. He is grinning, but his voice is shaking. “Let’s cut the crap here, huh? Tell ya what, I betcha it’s startin’ t’feel awful cold at night up there. Betcha he only keeps himself one bed.”  
  
“Two weeks,” Sweden offers. “Two weeks an’ that’s all.”  
  
“Two weeks? Holy shit!”  
  
“Danmark—”  
  
“Man, an' even _I_ can tell. Now that’s really somethin’— two weeks.”  
  
“Danmark!”  
  
“ _Two weeks_. Jesus, Sverige, can’t even wait that long for it?”  
  
In an instant, Norway has crossed the room, has him by the front of his shirt, and has him held fast. Sweden can hear the linen straining, ripping in his grip. Denmark’s smile is gone, his hands raised in supplication.  
  
“C’mon, Norge,” he breathes. “Seriously. I’m beggin’ ya.”  
  
Without hesitation, Norway breaks his nose.

 

It takes the full two weeks for Norway to make his preparations, the full two weeks and then some. He is still clearing his effects from his study when Sweden arrives at noon. The front door of his home lies open, so Sweden lets himself in. Holstein is blissfully silent.  
  
Perhaps he has seen the carriage through some window, for Norway ghosts down to the landing just long enough to mutter his apologies and is gone in a half a heartbeat. When he returns, it is only to press a large, leather-bound volume into Sweden’s hands and instructs him:  
  
“Hold this, would ya? And don’t go flippin’ through t’have a look, this one’s cursed.”  
  
Alone with the book, Sweden tucks it under his arm, grateful to have the layers of his clothing to keep it at some distance. He wonders if Norway is unafraid to touch it barehanded. Perhaps not. He hadn’t been paying Norway’s hands any mind, not them so much as the way the upper two buttons of his shirt lay open. His cravat had been undone, and his coat still hangs by the door, as if he hasn’t quite gotten as far as getting dressed. But it is a long journey from Oslo to Stockholm, and Sweden does not have all day. He follows Norway up the stairs and down the short corridor to the study. The door is shut, so he knocks lightly.  
  
“If’n y’don’t mind a mess,” Norway says, “C’mon in.”  
  
He sidesteps a knee-high stack of books on entering, and barely manages to not trip over a pile of stones. Norway’s head rises up from behind the desk.  
  
“An’ watch that there hörgr,” he calls. “’s not me what’s gonna get riled if’n you go knockin’ it over.”  
  
“Y’had two weeks,” Sweden reminds him.  
  
“Right. Asked for four, I did. Mind takin’ that jar on yer left?” He points to a shelf, where a slender jar filled with dried snake skins holds the books in place. “Just yank ‘em right out, like.”  
  
As far as he can tell, the dusty, fragile-looking skins are older than this building. He casts Norway a dubious look.  
  
“Y’sure y’need all this stuff?”  
  
“Only what I’m sayin’ needs t’be taken.”  
  
“Can replace some of it for ya,” Sweden offers. “Leave what’s old here.”  
  
“An’ I’m tellin’ ya it’s gotta come with. Now pass ‘em snakes over here.”  
  
There comes a sharp caw from beside the window, and Sweden turns to see a large, black raven leaning forth on what he had assumed to be a coat rack, beak snapping open and shut loudly.  
  
“Gad _damn_ it, woman!” Norway swears, pounding a fist against the side of the desk. “I said t’give me a minute!”  
  
“…that, ah.” Sweden pauses to clear his throat. “That your bird?”  
  
Norway shakes his head.  
  
“Not mine. She just comes t’visit. Reckon I been spoilin’ her.” When the raven shrieks again and raps her beak against her perch, he shouts: “Food’s on the desk! Git it yourself!”  
  
Sweden watches as the bird cocks its —her, rather— her head curiously, then flutters to the desk. She struts over, eyeing Sweden cautiously. He could swear she is scrutinizing him as she picks a bit of dried apple from a bowl.  
  
“She unnerstand ya?”  
  
“Course she can,” Norway says, standing at last with an armful of books. “Ain’t stupid, yanno. Are ya?” He strokes her head with a finger. “Reckon you’re gonna have t’find some other smitten young’un t’shack up with, arentcha?”  
  
The raven swallows her food and shrieks as if in reply. Sweden suppresses the desire to shudder.

“Wanna be leavin’ before dark,” he mumbles. The raven trains her gaze on him again, and he looks away. Norway nods.  
  
“Right.” He presses the books and what looks like the skull of an ox into Sweden’s hands, and returns to his desk to root through the drawers, muttering to himself. He pauses, seemingly mid-thought, and then turns to the window. “There,” he says, unlatching the bolt and pushing it open. “Free t’go whenever.” Then he gathers his last few ledgers and some candles, and declares himself:  
  
“Finished.”  
  
“Mm. Yer not dressed,” Sweden points out. He is not. Norway must have woken in his shirt and breeches, and begun packing immediately. It won’t do to travel in such a state. It is understandable, yes, even though some small, quiet whisper within reminds Sweden that he has been more than generous with his time, he has given him a week more to prepare than he had desired to. Understandable, but it still will not do to leave Oslo breathless, neck bared, and hair in disarray. It will not do at all. Sweden reaches out with a free hand to smooth down the most conspicuous of the flyaways. A thoughtless gesture on his part: Norway starts at the touch, eyes going wide.  
  
“Watchit,” he breathes. He pushes Sweden’s hand aside, throat flushing pink beneath his open collar. Sweden stammers out an apology.  
  
“—‘m sorry. Didn’t mean t—”  
  
“—it’s fine.”  
  
“—hurt or nothin’—”  
  
“It’s fine,” Norway repeats, with more conviction in his voice. “Y’just. Just caught me a little off-guard, is what. Right. Been tearin’ my hair out so bad these last few weeks, I just didn’t figure someone else’d be tryin’ t’help with th’job.”  
  
He smiles softly and reaches for something at his hip— a gold hairpin in the shape of a cross. He smoothes the errant hairs down and fixes them in place all in one practiced gesture. Sweden notes that he is not wearing gloves.  
  
“There,” he says. “All fixed. Now let’s get movin’, shall we?”

Sweden waits in the carriage for Norway to finish collecting his strange effects. It does not take long. Norway joins him fully dressed in a matter of minutes, with nothing more to add to the carriage’s load than an ornamental oak box. It is a beautiful piece, Sweden thinks. One cannot help admiring the graceful openwork of the lid, and the pale softwood underlay. Truly, a work of art in miniature. And he has always been fond of oak.  
  
“’s all yer bringin’?” he asks. Norway thumbs over the arcs and spirals of the lid.  
  
“Sent along th’big stuff with a porter durin’ th’week; books aside, this’s it.”  
  
“Good. Should have things ready fer ya by midweek comin’.”  
  
Norway nods, reaching into his coat.  
  
“I’d appreciate that.”  
  
“Think it done.”  
  
“Think I will.” He sits back then, bringing out a hip flask.  
  
“Right. Now that mess’s seen to ‘n done…” He tilts the flask back, taking a long, hard pull. Sweden watches in silence, watches how his throat dips and swells, working the drink down. He swallows as well. Beneath his cravat, his neck itches.  
  
“Sorry y’had t’see any o’that,” Norway says, turning the flask cap over in his hand. Mother of pearl inset glints in the late afternoon sun, stark and bright against his dark gloves. “Been a long two weeks here.”  
  
“’s fine,” Sweden assures him.  
  
“If’n y’want, y’can have some. Least I can do.” He holds the flask out to Sweden, his expression cool and unreadable. For a moment, Sweden is tempted. He thinks of the burn of the drink, for certainly it will burn. Norway would not have it any other way; oftentimes, he has thought that perhaps it is on such drinks that Norway sharpens his tongue. He thinks of the thin sheen of wetness undoubtedly on the mouth of the flask, left there by the touch of Norway’s lips.  
  
“’s fine,” he repeats. He does not dare accept.  
  
“Y’sure?” Norway tilts the flask in invitation. But Sweden’s eyes are fixed instead on Norway’s wrist, on the way the glove does not quite join with the linen of his shirt or of his coat when he moves. He can see the veins through the thin layer of skin, like dark ripples beneath the surface in marble. He wonders if it would be warm to the touch, or cool like stone. “Last offer.”  
  
Sweden politely declines. It is for the best. As the carriage pulls away, he lays his head back against the seat and shuts his eyes. It is a long way back to Stockholm from Oslo, and he should like to sleep some, if he can. But the inside of that wrist is branded into his mind, white-hot between the blue of his sleeves and the smooth black leather of his gloves.


	3. Chapter 3

The small home outside of Stockholm should be of appropriate size, Sweden thinks. It would be imprudent to share a living space as well as a crown, but he would not have Norway stay so far away that he cannot keep an eye on affairs. And for good reason, for it seems some do not know when to leave well enough alone: missives come from the south, from Denmark. The fool may be cautious enough to not use his seal or his name in correspondence, and Sweden supposes that is commendable enough, but his manner is not so easily neutralized.  
  
  
Sweden knows of the people’s movement. He knows of Denmark’s hand in the matter. It is not so difficult to fit the two pieces together. They fit as naturally as brethren parts hewn from the same tree. Yet Norway does not speak of it, and Sweden does not ask. There is no need to, so long as he ensures no more messages bearing a certain penmanship make their way north.  
  
  
Easily done. He has in his employ a man whose tongue is still and aim is true. Perhaps not as true as Finland’s might have been, but three bullets silence insurgent whispers just the same as one.  
  
  
They share a crown, though they need not share a space. Nevertheless, Sweden is wont to open his home to Norway, whenever Norway chooses to keep his company. It is not such an unpleasant arrangement in this regard, for they are well matched in their temperaments. They sit in amicable silence, sometimes— at first indoors beside the fire, or outside in the garden, once the weather allows. Sweden takes his sewing along. Norway reads.  
  
  
The quilt is coming along beautifully. Already he has the design lain out in his mind and so many of the patches cut out from the old shirts. He stitches them together in the quiet, the discs and half-moons in blue and white, with thread run through with silver to bind them. They are good winter colors, and although it is growing warmer now, he would like to have it prepared for the year coming. It is nice, Sweden thinks, to not feel compelled to trip over his own tongue for the sake of his guest’s comfort. One cannot read and make idle chatter at the same time. And often, many things are better left unspoken:  
  
  
“Island’s itchin’ to pay a visit,” Norway says mildly. He turns the page of his book. Sweden draws his needle through his last stitch and pulls it taut.  
  
  
“No,” he replies.  
  
  
Norway’s eyes flicker sidelong. Just for a moment, but Sweden can see the telltale flutter of his eyelids. Then they are back on the book.  
  
  
“I wasn’t askin'.”  
  
  
“…still. Too young t’be makin’ the trip over on his own,” Sweden goes on, and hearing it aloud, he finds it almost sounds convincing. “Highwaymen won’t think twice on it, goin’ after what looks t’be a kid. ‘s unwise.”  
  
  
And Denmark still sees to Iceland’s affairs. It would not be beneath him to send along the one liaison Sweden cannot greet with a cocked pistol. He draws another blanket stitch tight. Norway turns another page.  
  
  
“Take more than a wiseass highwayman t’do him in for good.”  
  
  
“Don’t need one tryin’ t’do him in at all.”  
  
  
Two more stitches.

 

“Don’t sell’m short— ain’t two hundred anymore,” Norway says. “Reckon he can make out alright. An’ if you’re that worried, can just give’m a gun.”  
  
  
“Don’t want’m getting’ blood on his hands. Not if he doesn’t gotta.”  
  
  
“Wouldja rather be havin’ him what’s lettin’ blood?”  
  
  
“If I was havin’ m’druthers,” Sweden murmurs, “he wouldn’t be comin’ at all.”  
  
  
Another stitch— carefully. He very nearly forgets to loop the needle back through the base stitch.  
  
  
“M’brother wants to see me.”  
  
  
“And ‘m sayin’ it ain’t safe.”  
  
  
“Fer who, Sverige?”  
  
  
Sweden isn’t even looking at his work, centuries of practice guiding his hands instead. He jabs the needle through the fabric hard. He doesn’t mean to, but a pull in the fabric would warp the cloth.  
  
  
“…Island, Norge.”  
  
  
Norway repeats:  
  
  
“Safe fer who, Sverige?”  
  
  
“Said. Fer Island.”  
  
  
Another stitch. Another turn of the page.  
  
  
“Fer who?”  
  
  
“Isl— shit!” Sweden yelps, the needle striking straight through the pad of his thumb and deep into the flesh, drawing blood. He pushes the quilt aside so that he does not make a mess of it, casting about for a handkerchief. Norway’s eyes flick to the side again and back to his reading.  
  
  
“Mind yer sewin’,” he says. “Yer gonna stick yerself.”  
  
  
Sweden thinks he prefers it when they do not speak.

 

Never the less, Norway returns the following Wednesday afternoon to take tea with him. At least, that seems to be Norway’s intention, for he presents Sweden with a box of small jam cakes and settles himself in a wing chair, legs crossed and hands folded.  
  
  
“Yer not dressed proper,” he observes, taking in Sweden’s open shirt and bare lower legs. Of course not. He has been reviewing records of the past year’s tax yield since dawn, making the necessary corrections where he must. Dressing has not yet even crossed his mind. Sweden bends to fasten the knee-buttons of his breeches, smearing the button-holes with black ink. He grimaces inwardly; he will have to replace this pair.  
  
  
“Been busy.”  
  
  
Norway arches an eyebrow.  
  
  
“Y’don’t say.”  
  
  
“Mm. Y’know how it is.”  
  
  
“Aye.” He steeples his fingers against his lips in mock thought. “Ain’t enough hours in the day, is what.”  
  
  
Sweden means to agree, but a traitorous something within him tightens at the sight of soft black leather against those pale lips. Pale, dry, wind-chapped lips, perhaps from time spent at sea— he had never quite noticed before. He wonders how it might feel to run his thumb along them, though not covered in wet ink as it is or swollen still from the needle-prick.  
  
  
“Ah— aye,” he mutters, rubbing the pad of his thumb. “Scarce enough.”  
  
  
This seems to appease Norway: the eyebrow goes back down and he cocks his head curiously.  
  
  
“How’s that hand of yours doing, by the by?”  
  
  
“’s…” Norway purses his lips against those steepled fingers and Sweden must pause to recover his mind just to say: “’s fine.”  
  
  
  
  
He does not last long that night, curled over and shaking on his knees. Again, he comes hard with two fingers inside himself and the thought of blood-red lingonberry jam streaked across a pair of dry lips to leave him breathless.

 

A knock on his door rouses him from sleep long before dawn. Sweden fumbles about blindly in the dark for his spectacles but cannot find them. In the end, he is left staggering across the room with one hand on the wall, and the other holding his dressing gown shut. He considers reaching for the pistol in the drawer at his bedside, but if his glasses are nowhere to be found, he supposes it’s foolish to think he might locate it, let alone aim it. His hand finds the door handle and grips it tight.  
  
  
“Who’s there?” he growls.  
  
  
“S-sir, it’s a message,” comes the reply. He recognizes the thin voice— the housekeeper’s shy aide. It’s for the best that he didn’t take the gun, then. He pushes the door open and leans out slowly so as not to startle her.  
  
  
“Message?”  
  
  
The blurred form that is aide’s head bobs in the candlelight, and she produces a folded sheet of parchment. An envelope, perhaps. Sweden squints at it, but cannot make out the hand.  
  
  
“Couldna waited fer mornin’?”  
  
  
The head shakes.  
  
  
“I was told it was urgent, sir.”  
  
  
Shit.  
  
  
“Who’s it from?”  
  
  
“I— I don’t know. There’s a seal on the back,” she offers. “With lions.”  
  
  
“Lions?”  
  
  
“Three, sir.”  
  
  
Denmark’s, likely. He takes the envelope, turning it over in his hands. All he can distinguish is the red of the sealing wax. Still. Without a doubt, it’s Denmark’s. He nods.  
  
  
“Mm, ‘s important, then. Thanks, y’did right in fetchin’ me.”  
  
  
Sweden dismisses her, apologizing for the late night disturbance, and he lights a lamp to see by. It seems he will be needing his spectacles after all.  
  
  
_Sverige,_ (the letter reads, in Danish rather than French)  
  
  
_Hey, asshole— long time no see. Here’s hoping this message finds you in good health, and Norge, too. I’d ask him myself, but he hasn’t been responding to my letters these past few weeks. Last I heard, he was working his way through Ovid and you were putting together a new quilt. I’m praying for your balls, grandma, so don’t say I never did anything for you.  
  
  
Speaking of balls, Island’s doing well, thought you might like to know. Gives me a hell of an attitude, but he’s at that age, so what can you do. I’m going to be sending him your way for a bit, since he’s been itching to see Norge. I think he could use the company and he probably thinks he could use the change of scene. Make sure he eats right, okay?  
  
  
Oh, and try not to put a bullet in his head before he gets to Stockholm, huh? I don’t miss the messengers much, but then again, I’m not the one who’s going to have to explain to Norge why his baby brother’s had his brains blown out all over the road. Just something to think about.  
  
  
In the meanwhile, fondest regards from your big brother.  
  
  
God bless,  
  
  
Kongeriget Danmark_  
  
  
Urgent, he thinks. What a laugh. He wastes no more ink than he must in his reply:  
  
  
_No._  
  
  
Konungariket Sverige

 

 The next day, a missive arrives from Iceland, thanking Sweden in advance for his hospitality. He sets out for Copenhagen immediately.  
  
  
  
  
And yet somehow Denmark seems surprised to see him. He rises from the desk in the far corner of his study, eyes wide and body twisting contrapposto as he stands to face the door. Sweden does not give him the chance to get his feet under him— he seizes Denmark by the shoulders and has him up against the wall before he can lift a fist or open his lying mouth.  
  
  
“Son of a bitch,” he snarls. Denmark yelps, perhaps from pain, perhaps from surprise. Either way, it makes no difference to him.  
  
  
“Jesus Christ!” Denmark grabs holds of his wrist. “Sverige, what the—”  
  
  
“Two days!!” Sweden considers breaking his ribs right then and there. The fool clearly has learned nothing from Kiel. Perhaps he needs a new reminder with every breath just where he stands. “Woulda taken two days for the messenger t’get back!”  
  
  
“Sverige, lemme go!”  
  
  
“What’s th’matter, Danmark? Couldn’t even wait that long fer it?”  
  
  
“Shit, Sverige,” He pulls at Sweden’s grasp, but not like he means it. “Listen t’me fer a sec, wouldja?”  
  
  
“No!” Sweden roars, his voice raw and oddly foreign in his ears. Then suddenly, Denmark is twisting his arm hard, hard enough to hurt, and he ducks down low. Before Sweden can free himself, Denmark’s shoulder has found his gut. Curious, Sweden thinks, that he should possess such strength yet, bleeding out as he is. Such strength— blinding nausea washes over him, bringing him to his knees. Coward that he is, Denmark takes the opportunity to pin him to the ground, belly against the carpet.  
  
  
“Jesus,” he swears, holding Sweden’s arm at a dangerous angle, and Sweden stills. He can feel the strain on the juncture of his arm and shoulder— Denmark need only give one firm pull to dislocate it. He props the arm against his shoulder, leaving one hand free to tangle in Sweden’s hair and press his face down and growls: “That’s a hell of a way ta say hello t’your dear brother, huh?”  
  
  
Sweden spits.  
  
  
“A liar an’ no brother a’mine.”  
  
  
Denmark’s hand in his hair tightens in warning.  
  
  
“Easy, there. Don’t rightly appreciate ya comin’ round t’my place unannounced t’sling names at me, ya know.”  
  
  
“Liar. Traitor.”  
  
  
“You’re killin’ me here, Sverige.”  
  
  
“Níðingr.”  
  
  
Denmark yanks his head back and then slams it against the ground. Pain surges through him, but it is from the roughness of the rug and nothing more— a warning, then, for Denmark is easily capable of worse.  
  
  
“Sverige,” Denmark says. “What’d I just say about the names.”  
  
  
“Níðing—oof!”  
  
  
Another slam, harder this time. Something structural in his nose gives way with a crunch, and Sweden has to will himself not to retch.  
  
  
“Least of all, that one. Man, don’t tell me ya forgot what it means t’call a guy that?”  
  
  
“Remember just fine.” Sweden pauses to breathe. It is not such an easy task, not with his nose quickly swelling up and blood trickling thick down the back of his throat. He swallows twice, tasting copper. “Ain’t me what needs remindin’.”

 

Denmark’s fingers tighten in his hair and Sweden braces himself for another impact, but none comes.  
  
  
“Don’t fuck with me, Sverige, I’m a busy guy. If ya came here t’talk, talk. Open your goddamn mouth and use your words like a big boy.”  
  
  
How ironic that Denmark should be the one to talk about mincing words.  
  
  
“Island,” he concedes. “Y’didn’t even wait t’hear back.”  
  
  
He waits for the denial. Denmark’s weight on his back shifts.  
  
  
“Words, Sverige. Use ‘em.”  
  
  
That’s better than he was expecting, he supposes.  
  
  
“Toldja not t’send’m. Did it anyway.”  
  
  
“…’scuse?”  
  
  
“I toljda not t’send him t’Stockholm, and ya did. Oughta gut ya like a fiiii—” he trails off, hissing, as Denmark strains his arm. The blood from his nose had better be ruining this carpet, he thinks. If nothing else.  
  
  
“Who’s sayin’ I sent him, Sverige?”  
  
  
“Lemme go.”  
  
  
“Nah.” Denmark drums his fingers against Sweden’s wrist. “Think I like ya better like this. ‘Cuz this way—” and here he grips Sweden’s wrist hard once more and pushes. Not hard enough to do any lasting damage, but hard enough to hurt. “—yer actually listenin’ some, I think. You listenin’, Sverige?”  
  
  
He snorts to clear his airways. Denmark groans in disgust.  
  
  
“Dammit, Sverige, didja _have_ ta? This carpet was a gift!”  
  
  
“Didn’t have t’send Island.”  
  
  
“Guess yer not listenin’, after all. Who’s sayin’ I sent him?”  
  
  
Sweden sighs into the pile velvet. How long does Denmark plan to persist in feigning ignorance? But then, it’s just as well, he supposes. He breathes deep, then exhales again, spattering as much blood as he can on the rug. It’s an ugly one, anyway. Denmark won’t be losing any sleep over it.  
  
  
“You did,” Sweden says, “ya lyin’ níðing—”  
  
  
Searing pain in his shoulder. And then, numbness. Sweden gasps.

 

“Ya just had ta keep twisting my arm, didn’tcha,” Denmark mutters. “Tsk, tsk, Sverige. Just had ta keep twisting it.”  
  
  
Sweden supposes Denmark fancies that clever. He would, the sick fool. Perhaps he will not mind some extra red on his carpet, then— after all, Denmark says it brings out the best in a man. For once, Sweden thinks he might agree. He coughs wetly.  
  
  
“Doesn’ hurt none,” he spits.  
  
  
“Ain’t always about hurt, man. Well, I dunno ‘bout you, but least, fer the rest of us, it ain’t.”  
  
  
“’Course not. Fer you, ‘s about lettin’ Island get his brains blown out by a highwayman, or…” Sweden pauses to swallow more blood. “…or summat.”  
  
  
Denmark’s grip on his hair loosens some.  
  
  
“…a highwayman, Sverige?  
  
  
Sweden turns his head to look at him.  
  
  
“…what?” he asks. Denmark stares at him incredulously.  
  
  
“C’mon, seriously? That’s what you’re callin’ ‘em now.”  
  
  
“’m not followin’ ya.”  
  
  
“Highwaymen, Sverige.”  
  
  
Sweden nods.  
  
  
“Mm. Highwaymen.”  
  
  
Denmark sighs and sits back, drumming again on Sweden’s wrist as he thinks.  
  
  
“Say, how ‘bout this,” he offers. “If I let ya up, and find someone t’set your arm ta rights, ya promise not ta be a fuckin’ prig and talk t’me straight?”

 

Denmark starts things off in French:  
  
  
“Now, way I’m readin’ this is,” he says, pouring brandy into two glass snifters, “you’re thinkin’ I’m sendin’ Island along ta pass messages over t’Norge, arentcha.”  
  
  
He holds one out to Sweden. Sweden accepts, taking the rim between his fingers, but says nothing. Just scowls at Denmark over his glass.  
  
  
“Aw, don’t look at me like that,” Denmark says. He waves a hand “An’ go on, drink up, Sverige. It’s only gonna hurt worse if ya don’t.”  
  
  
Again, nothing.  
  
  
“Didn’t poison it or nothin’, asshole. Now put your big boy balls back on and drink, wouldja? I’m wastin’ the good shit on you, ya know.”  
  
  
Still, he holds his tongue until his shoulder has been set and slung. He keeps his silence as his arm is pushed painfully back into place and keeps it until well after Denmark’s men have left the room. Only then does he speak, and drink.  
  
  
“Yeah,” he says, taking a sip. “Yeah, ‘s about th’long and short’ve it.”  
  
  
“’scuse?”  
  
  
“What ya said. ‘s about th’long and short’ve things.”  
  
  
Simple as that. Denmark sits back in his seat and takes a sip from his own glass.  
  
  
“Well, fuck me,” he muses. “Had ta wait ‘til we were alone just ta say that much. Man, ya really don’t trust anyone, do ya, Sverige?”  
  
  
“Don’t rightly think yer in any place t’be questionin’ how I do things, seein’ as ya lost.”  
  
  
Hearing that seems to make Denmark take pause; he stops with the glass tilted halfway to his lips again.  
  
  
“Oh yeah?”  
  
  
“’Oh yeah’ what?”  
  
  
“Losin’. Winnin’.” Denmark motions with his snifter, rocking it forward towards Sweden then back. “Puttin’ things in terms like that, says to me ‘s really all it is to ya.”  
  
  
Sweden nods, after a moment. At first he thinks to protest, it’s the sort of thing Denmark would not understand. It’s why he still holds his lands and then some, and Denmark bleeds like a fool. He permits himself a quick glance at Denmark’s belly to gauge the severity of his wounds. His clothes betray nothing.  
  
  
“Aye,” he says at last. “’s about th’long and short’ve it.”

 

Denmark laughs. He laughs loud and long, roaring as if in ear-shattering counterpoint to Sweden’s shouting before. He laughs with his head thrown back and his teeth bared and his drink tipping dangerously in his hands. Sweden thinks he does not care a great deal for the sound of his mirth— it is harsh and grating. Ugly, one might say of it. Vulgar, even. The sight is not much to speak of, either, with his face twisted so. Complacency does not become him.  
  
  
“An’ that’s where Island comes into play, huh? With me on the losin’ end, tryin’ to get an edge on?” He reels forward in his seat. “Huh?”  
  
  
Sweden does not give him the pleasure of vindication. He sips again at his brandy.  
  
  
“Man,” Denmark goes on. “You’re lucky Island ain’t here ta take ya t’task on that. An’ me, fer one— I’d never be hearin’ th’end of it, yanno.”  
  
  
Sweden frowns.  
  
  
“’scuse?”  
  
  
“You heard me. Island’d be kickin’ my ass up an’ down the continent if I’da tried ta rope him inta anything. I toldja he ain’t all too keen on listenin’t’me.”  
  
  
But that can’t be right.  
  
  
“Keen or not,” he replies, “ain’t never made much difference to ya.”  
  
  
“Now? Nah. Long time ago, maybe, but time keeps marchin’ on, yanno. An’ what’s more. That. Ya see, that’s your problem, Sverige,” he says, grin crooked on his face. He waves his snifter, stabbing his index finger into the air at Sweden over the lip. “Ya think it’s okay t’just waltz right in and start callin’ the shots, so long as you’re tellin’ folks it’s fer their own good.”  
  
  
Sweden snorts, but lets him continue. He does:  
  
  
“Easy, t’say it’s fer their own good. T’say yer doin’ it ‘cause ya care.” Another stab. “Like yer just tryin’ ta look after ‘em when ya try ta keep ‘em around.”  
  
  
“Think yer confusin’ me fer you.”  
  
  
“Liar. ‘s no different. Me tryin’ ta hold everyone together, an’ you with…” Denmark pauses, can’t seem to find the words. He waves it off. “Everyone. Finlan’. Islan’. All this shit with Norge, too. No different. Think it’s simple, like ya can just keep folks around forever Which we all know now don’t work worth shit.” He sighs and knocks back what’s left of his drink. When he deposits his glass at last on the desk beside the decanter, he turns to face Sweden. “Yeesh, I’da figured you’d’a known that best of all of us.”  
  
  
And the rest is silence. Silence and their gazes meeting halfway. How pale he seems, Sweden thinks, considering him in the stillness. Perhaps Copenhagen has been doing worse by him than suspected. He had not noticed how much more sharply now Denmark’s features stand out than ever before, or how sunken are the spaces beneath his eyes— low, dark, and bruised as they are. Perhaps it is in his own mind, or some trick of the light. Perhaps it is the quiet.  
  
  
“Yer over tired,” Sweden concludes. “Yer startin’ ta talk nonsense.”

 

Denmark has a room set aside for him for the night so he may retire. Sweden protests –he is fully capable of riding back to Stockholm on his own— but Denmark twists his arm, proverbially this time. Thankfully. He calls for a porter to show Sweden to a beautiful, spacious guest chamber. A surprisingly kind gesture on his part, Sweden thinks, until he steps in. The scent of beech wood washes over him, from the furnishing and the fire in the mantle. Typical of Denmark, he supposes. Eager to sacrifice the practical for the sake of stroking his ego, as always. The bed creaks and groans when he settles his weight upon it. And the stench of beech burns in his nostrils.  
  
  
He does not sleep that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme. To be revised and updated, slowly. To read the original, please see: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/15769.html?thread=39656601#t39656601


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